Take me back sweet midnight dream
To the home of the heart.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sight
Of tiny windows
Of the happy hearth.
To sit within the walls of wood,
To read and ponder the world we’re in,
Yes, take me back to the crooked house
Where friends stop by and sit awhile
And laughter rings
Its happy chime rings,
Filling the forest
With life and mirth,
A bench waits there
For my weary frame,
To sit and watch the birds fly
To listen to the quiet
Of the heart that beats,
Longing to go back,
Longing to say hello old friend.
The dreams take me there
Walking along with the faerie lights,
Guiding me to the path
That leads into the glade,
Where there sits a little shack,
The imagination place
Where words flow like a creek after rain,
Where the heart is free
To gaze out the windows and wonder
What happens beyond this peace,
Beyond this magical place,
The world spins madly out of control,
But here,
Yes this is the home of the mind
Where nothing is out-of-place
Where beauty and joy reigns
In my palace of wood
In my slice of imagination,
In my dream of home.

Fever is a house

Normalcy like a foundation
Built strong
To withstand
The winds and storms,
Tattered a bit
Here and there
Fixed and put right.
Fever is a house
Foundation legs crumbling below
Precariously balanced,
Yet still home,
Just not quite right.
It needs the time
To be built again
As sand will wash away
With the passing tide,
Like time slowly deteriorating
Muscle and skin,
Sagging roof
And dirty windows
Needing the cleaning
For which to see out.
Tired house listing
Side to side
Like an uneasy gait
Just wanting to fall
Into the abyss
And sleep and dream
Of becoming the mansion
Of its dreams,
Of being strong
Of healing.

Thoughts on being sick in comparison to this poor house, with thanks to who ever sent this head cold my way but mostly not.

Nobody home

Nature takes back
What is built by mens hands
Vines creep
Where no one sleeps.
Who walked these halls,
Gazed from the windows
At the day beyond,
Did children play
On waxed wooden floors
Or sit in the sun
While harvesting the fields.
Whose life slipped by
Under the high ceilings
Of this now idle mansion,
Do ghosts echo silence
Off molding walls
And do people wonder
As they drive by
At the inhabitants now gone,
Do they even notice
This decay
As piece by piece
It crumbles away.